


tumblr fills (humor & fluff)

by saysthemagpie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Humor, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, a mixture of things, umm let's see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2018-10-11 12:12:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10464669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saysthemagpie/pseuds/saysthemagpie
Summary: tumblr drabbles/ficlets crossposted here for safekeeping. each chapter has the pairing tagged. I'm splitting these up into two works - one for humor and one for angstier stuff.





	1. paperweight (harry/niall, crackfic)

**Author's Note:**

> just starting to get a little jumpy about tumblr deleting stuff, so I'm posting a bunch of tumblr drabbles here for safekeeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a set of flash drabbles inspired by @sashayed’s Random 2015 1D Events Generator. The prompt was: _Harry will write a solo album about a collection of baubles._

Harry waits two whole days after sending the file to ring Niall.

“Well?” he asks anxiously when Niall picks up. “Did you listen to it?”

Niall clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, I did.”

“And?” says Harry, impatient.

“Well,” says Niall. “It’s - um, just out of curiosity, does Jeff know what you’ve been working on?”

“I asked him to let me lay down some tracks before he listened,” Harry says. “So I could have, like, total artistic freedom and all that. It was so liberating, Niall. Felt like I could finally just write about the stuff that matters to me, you know?”

“Huh,” Niall says. “Right. And - just want to make sure I listened to the right file, it’s called - ”

“Stuff From My Flat,” Harry says proudly. “I mean, all the songs are just demos right now, but I think it’s going to sound sick once I get a proper backing track.”

There’s a long silence on the other end. Harry shakes his phone a little, in case it’s bad service or something, then puts it back up to his ear.

“I wonder if it’ll be hard to break into the American market,” Niall says finally. “‘Cos they don’t really say flat there.”

“I did think that,” says Harry, “but it’s like, what would I call it instead? Stuff From My LA Mansion? It wouldn’t be true, is the thing. All the songs are about things I have in London, ‘cos that’s where I wrote it. That’s like, where my inspiration comes from.”

“Right,” says Niall. There’s another long silence.

“Do you not like it?” Harry feels a creeping sense of doubt. “Is it the tempo? I can change that, that’s easy.”

“No, the tempo’s fine,” Niall says. “It’s just, ah. Pretty different from our old stuff. You know, content-wise.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

“Like, there’s not much on here about love,” says Niall. “Or kissing someone, or wanting to chat up a girl but not being able to ‘cos her boyfriend’s got twenty-seven tattoos, that kind of thing.”

“I guess that’s true,” Harry says slowly.

“Actually,” Niall says, “all the songs are just songs about things.”

“That’s why it’s called _Stuff From My Flat_.” Harry doesn’t get why they’re having so much trouble communicating right now. “But you liked them, right? Which was your favorite?”

“Maybe you should call Jeff first,” says Niall. “And then let me know what he says.”

“Tell me your favorite first,” Harry says. “Just, were there any that really stood out to you?”

“Um,” Niall says. “I guess - ‘Hair Tie,’ maybe?”

“That’s my favorite too!” Harry exclaims. “It’s the chorus, right? Oh, and the first verse, where I talk about how I wish they wouldn’t snap so often? I keep getting that bit stuck in my head.”

“Yeah.” Niall’s voice sounds a little odd, sort of strangled. Must be the connection again. “How much are they paying you for this?”

“Eighty million, I think,” Harry says. “And I have to do two more albums. I think it’ll be okay, though. I’ve still got loads of ideas for songs.”

After they hang up Harry pulls up the folder on his laptop again and looks at it. He feels that warm, contented glow of satisfaction all over, the kind of feeling he gets after he’s done a really good show or made someone faint from how much they love him.

_STUFF FROM MY FLAT (DEMO VERSION)_

__

_1\. Pencil Eraser_  
_2\. Ring I Found On the Tube_  
_3\. Russian Nesting Doll_  
_4\. Mum’s Cheese Platter_  
_5\. Hair Tie_  
_6\. Old Timey Fountain Pen_  
_7\. Paintbrush_  
_8\. Antique Vegetable Peeler with Engraved Handle, Discovered in a Shop in Covent Garden, on the 2nd of August in the Year 2016_  
_9\. Soap (Lemon)_  
_10\. A Rock from My Garden_

He clicks over to his email and opens a new message to jeff@fullstopmgmt.com, subject line IT’S FINISHED!!!!! After he’s sent the zip file he settles back into his chair and picks up the guitar he’s still not quite managed to learn how to play, even though Niall’s been giving him weekly lessons over Skype. Jeff and Glenne are coming by for dinner in a couple hours, but he’s got time to work on something.

Smiling to himself, he strums the opening chords of a new song he’s been working on - just a little something called ‘Paperweight.’ He thinks Niall’s really going to love this one.


	2. the origin of the butterfly tattoo (harry/louis-ish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "You're not gonna cry are you?" with lourry feat. dumb lovable Harry and exasperated but endeared Louis.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?“ Louis says. “It was only a dumb bug, Harry.”

“I’m not crying,” Harry says, his eyes suspiciously wet.

“Good,” Louis says, relieved. He’s about to turn back to the window when Harry’s chin starts wobbling.

“It was a caterpillar, Lou,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes. “It was barely born, and then it was horribly crushed.”

Louis sighs. It really had been a little traumatizing - one minute the caterpillar was there, inching along the sidewalk sniffing at the air with its little antennae, and the next minute it was gone, trampled underfoot by a horde of teenage girls who’d descended out of nowhere, scream-chanting the lyrics to ‘What Makes You Beautiful.’ Still, Louis’ really not prepared to grief-counsel Harry through this. He wishes they hadn’t gotten separated from the rest of the boys in the rush to get on the buses.

“It died doing what it loved, Harry,” he tries.

“Being smushed by thousands of feet?” Harry says, his voice rising in pitch. “Is that what it loved, Louis?”

This is really more Zayn’s territory, Louis thinks. He’d probably take Harry aside right now and tell him something profound about the cycle of life, maybe quote some poetry at him about how death gives meaning to existence, and then Harry would sniffle for a bit but feel as though he’d had an important life experience. Niall would distract him, probably with knock-knock jokes from the book he’d bought specially last tour for coping with Harry meltdowns.

Liam would probably listen to Harry talk about the caterpillar for ages, getting a bit misty-eyed himself, and then would help him organize a small memorial service at the next rest stop, with a few inspirational quotes scattered in to boost general morale.

“I hate fame,” Harry’s moaning now, clutching at the armrests. “Is this what it was all for, Louis? All the singing and the not-dancing and the photoshoots of us holding puppies and playing Twister? So a butterfly could sacrifice its life for us?”

“It wasn’t a butterfly yet,” Louis points out, which is absolutely, one hundred percent the wrong thing to say. Harry wails.

 _what do I do !!!!_ he texts the group chat, followed by a blurry shot of Harry weeping inconsolably.

 _oh noooo_ :( Liam texts. _is this about the caturpiler that was so saddddd_

 _tell him a limerick . he likes the one about the man from Nantucket . whos cock was so long he could ( u know ha ha)_ Niall suggests.

 _new number who dis,_ is Zayn’s contribution.

“Listen, Harry,” Louis says, putting a tentative hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Maybe, um. Maybe you could do something to commemorate its life. So it won’t be wasted.”

“Like what,” Harry says, sniffling.

“Um,” Louis says. “You could - you could raise awareness on Twitter or something. For like, an insect sanctuary.” He’s pretty sure those exist, right? If not the fans will definitely start one. The Harry Styles Butterfly Memorial Fund.

Harry considers this. “I - I guess that could be a nice way to remember it,” he allows.

“See?” Louis says, getting his phone out. “I’ll tweet about it right now.”

He must sound too eager, because Harry frowns. “I dunno,” he says. “Is that too easy? I read this article about how our generation just, like, tweets about stuff instead of actually doing something about it.”

“What have I told you about reading articles, Harry?” Louis says reprovingly. “And anyway, think of the fans. How important it’ll be for them to, er, see somebody our age speaking up about caterpillar stampedes.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, looking dubious. “Or maybe I should just get a tattoo?”

“Oh,” Louis says, relieved. “Um, yeah, that definitely works. Immortalize it forever, you know? Give it the life it never had.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Exactly.”

“What were you thinking, then? Little one right here, maybe?” Louis points to a bare patch of skin on Harry’s arm.

“I was thinking more like, right here,” Harry says, poking at his stomach.

“Huh,” Louis says. “Okay. Interesting choice.”

“And maybe it could be really big,” Harry says, looking inspired. “Right between my nipples, but down a little, and sort of - gigantic.” He draws an outline of it with his fingers.

“Or a tweet could be really nice,” Louis says. “A really good, meaningful 140 characters or less. Zayn could probably help you pick out a nice song lyric, and - ”

“What’s wrong with the tattoo?” Harry asks, his bottom lip starting to tremble.

“It’s just,” Louis says. “If you get a gigantic butterfly tattooed on your stomach you’re going to have to live with a gigantic butterfly on your stomach for the rest of your life, Haz.”

“And that’s bad?” says Harry, suddenly ablaze with righteous indignation. “Is that caterpillar’s life not worth a tattoo on my stomach, is that what you’re trying to say? Just ‘cos I’m famous and it was only a dumb bug?”

“You know what,” Louis says quickly. “You’re one hundred percent right. I’m going to call the tattoo guy right now, so don’t worry about that. You just - you just take as much time as you need to, um, grieve, or whatever.”

“Okay,” Harry says, with the air of an ailing convalescent. “I think - I think I’m just gonna go lie down in my bunk for a bit and watch a film. Do you want to come?”

“Yeah, sure, why not,” Louis says. “What’s it called?”

“Blackfish,” Harry says happily. “I heard it’s about Sea World. I hope there’s loads of dolphins in it.”


	3. tom hardy never stood a chance (tom/harry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry seduces Tom Hardy on the set of Dunkirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HARRY at SEA surrounded by MEN oh my god you better believe I’m going to write all the Dunkirk orgy fics.

There’s a knock on his door at midnight, just after Tom’s brushed his teeth and put on his military issue pyjamas.

“My hammock’s terrible,” Harry says by way of greeting. “It’s got all these holes in it. Can I sleep in here?”

Tom looks at his narrow bed. “Um. Think it’ll be a bit cramped, mate.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry says instantly. “I’m not that big, really. People are always going on about how easy it’d be to just pick me up and throw me over their shoulders.”

“Are they?” Tom asks faintly.

“Not just in a sex way,” Harry reassures him, sidling past him into his tiny officer’s cabin. “Anyway, I’ll hardly take up any room at all. Ooh, you’ve got real pillows. I wish I’d been made an officer.”

Harry insists on stripping down to his briefs, claiming he overheats easily, then wriggles under the thin blanket next to him. The bed’s not quite wide enough for both of them to lie comfortably on their backs.

“Oh,” Harry says when Tom makes to roll over onto his side towards the wall.

“Something the matter?” he asks politely, propping himself up on his elbow.

“It’s nothing, really,” Harry says, in a tone that suggests he’d like to be asked again, please.

“Um, are you sure?”

“Well.” Harry bites his lip, worrying it between his perfect white teeth. “It’s just, you know. Usually I’m the one who gets to be little spoon.”

Tom splutters. “What - Harry, we’re not spooning.”

“Oh,” says Harry, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Are we not?”

“I - no, Harry, we’re just sharing a bed. As coworkers. Because you couldn’t sleep in your hammock.”

“Oh, right,” Harry says, like he’s just remembered. “Right, of course.”

Hoping that’s the end of it, Tom shuffles over onto his side. He’s just beginning to drift off when Harry starts shivering dramatically next to him. He opens his eyes. “You all right, Harry?”

“Oh, fine,” Harry says, teeth chattering audibly. “It’s just awfully cold in here, isn’t it? Out here at sea?”

“I thought you got hot at night.”

“Well,” Harry says, sounding slightly petulant, “I’ve always been the little spoon before, haven’t I? I suppose it’s different, what with the body heat and all. I don’t suppose you’ve got another blanket?”

“Just the one, sorry.”

Harry’s shivering intensifies.

“Should I go ask someone from the crew if they’ve got an extra?” Tom asks, propping himself up on his elbow again.

“Th-that’s n-not n-necessary,” Harry manages, sticking his hands into his armpits to keep them warm. “I’ll b-be fine, s-sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir when we’re off duty,” Tom reminds him. Harry gives him a weak mock salute. “Listen, if you - if the cold’s too bad we can try the other thing. You know. Just to see if it might help.”

“Oh, the spooning?” Harry says. “Only if you want to.”

Tom wants to go to sleep at some point in the near future, so. Yeah, he wants to. When he pulls Harry towards him, a hand settling on his hip - it’s there, all right, and where else is he going to put his arm - Harry makes a contented little purring noise and snuggles back against him, his warm, mostly naked body pressed up against Tom’s front.

“Much better,” he says, and is snoring gently a few moments later.


	4. the lord's work (liam/harry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam's a door-to-door missionary for an obscure religious cult. Harry's a potential convert.

It’s only a little fire, but Liam’s not the type to take risks with fire safety, so when nobody answers the front door he climbs in the back window and puts it out himself, beating at the stove area with his regulation-issue Society polo shirt till he’s satisfied it’s out.

Then he’s standing in the middle of a complete stranger’s kitchen, having just broken and entered, in an area he isn’t even meant to be proselytizing in today. He’d just been riding past the old ramshackle yellow house on Oak on his bike, a bag full of conversion pamphlets slung over his shoulders, when

“Whoa,” says a voice from the door. Liam’s head jerks up. “Sorry,” he says, blushing a bit, because here he is, shirtless, and the bloke hasn’t got any clothes on at all. Liam tries not to look anywhere below the bloke’s forehead, just to be polite.”

“Sorry,” he says again, “it’s just, there was a fire on the range, and nobody was answering the door, and I thought–”

“Whoa,” the bloke says again. He’s tall and lanky, a shock of dark curls haloing his face, and he’s still very, very naked. “You’re, like. You’re a fireman?”

“Just a Good Samaritan,” Liam says, coloring a little, and then for some reason he adds quickly, addressing the bloke’s forehead, “Though I always wanted to be a fireman. You know, when I was a kid.”

“Mm, I could see it,” the bloke says. He doesn’t seem to be all that concerned about his own nudity, and he’s certainly not limiting himself to looking only at Liam from the neck up. As a matter of fact, Liam’s pretty sure he’s staring directly at his chest, and sort of - licking his lips a little. “Yeah, could definitely see that." He licks his lips again. "'M Harry, by the way."

"Liam," Liam says gratefully, extending his hand. "I'm from the Society. Er, I'm a missionary of sorts. I've got a brochure." He fumbles in his messenger bag. He's partway through explaining the bit about the Great Energy and His descent from the stars, garbling it a bit in his nervousness, when Harry interrupts him.

"Come here," he says, having apparently not taken in a word Liam's said. His eyes are a bit glazed over; Liam hopes it's not down to smoke inhalation. It hadn't been a very big fire, really, but some people are quite sensitive. Harry does look the type. 

"Come where?" Liam asks politely. He wonders if he should phone someone. 

"Meet the lads," Harry says, and wanders off. After a moment Liam glances around the kitchen nervously--it still reeks of burned fabric--and follows.

There are two more boys sprawled out on the couch in the living room, playing video games. Or Liam thinks they're video games, at least; he's not supposed to dwell too much on earthly pleasures. It does look like the new FIFA, though. Liam looks away from the screen quickly, lest temptation overcome him. 

"This is Louis," Harry says, pulling Liam down onto the loveseat next to him. "And Niall. He's Irish."

“What’s this, then?” Louis looks Liam up and down. 

"This,” he says, splaying his fingers wide over Liam’s knee, “is Liam Payne, who’s saved us all from a terrible fire, and now he’s telling us about aliens.”

“Er, not exactly,” says Liam. “I mean, it wasn’t a very big fire.”

“I could’ve died,” says Harry, rather dramatically. “But then the aliens intervened, in the form of shirtless Liam, and–”

“Not really aliens,” Liam hastens to add. “Well, of course there’s some extraterrestrial influence involved, but it’s really got more to do with the spirit realm–”

Louis stares at both of them. Comprehension dawns slowly. “Oh Christ,” he says. “Harry, I told you not to go feeding people those gummies of Zayn's again, didn’t I? Because really, after what happened with poor James and the aquarium –”

"I didn’t feed him anything,” Harry protests, fingers tightening on Liam’s upper thigh. “I found him like this.”

“In the kitchen without his shirt on?” the blond one asks. “Rather fit for one of them door-to-door blokes, isn’t he?”

“I’ll just - I should go,” Liam says, his face heating up. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time. Could I just–” He picks up the shirt, which has got a big patch burned right out of it, and sighs. Mum’s going to be so unhappy; she’s always reminding him that the Society hasn’t got enough money for extra expenses like shirts and things.

“Hang on, I’ll get you another one,” Harry says brightly. He jumps up and disappears down the hall. For some reason this makes Niall let out a loud bark of a laugh.

"Sorry,” Liam says. “Did you, um–”

“Oh, no, you’re covered,” Louis says, a glint of something like glee in his own voice. “Harry’s got an excellent wardrobe, really. It’s all posh stuff he gets for free, ‘cos he’s famous on Instagram.”

"Insta-gram?" Liam says faintly, but Harry's already returning.

“Here!” he says, offering him a slightly crumpled wad of material. At first Liam thinks there’s been some mistake–it’s as if someone decided to make half a shirt and then got bored halfway and made a bunch of streamers of the rest of the cloth. Or like someone wearing the shirt got attacked by something with claws and had the whole bottom half torn to shreds.

“It’s YSL,” Harry explains, which Liam can only imagine must be an acronym for the fate that befell it. _Yes, Shredded by Lion,_ maybe?

“Mm,” says Liam, in what he hopes is a noncommittal tone. He’ll just wear the burned one, then, and maybe - maybe he can just sort of hold Harry’s shirt over the burned spot in the front, and he'll be golden. 

“Well, try it on,” Harry urges. “I think it’s going to look lovely with your coloring.”

Reluctantly, Liam accepts the shirt thingy, which is a rather startling shade of pink. He pulls it on over his head, acutely aware of the way Niall and Harry are both openly staring at his abs. They’re nice enough as abs go, Liam supposes, though he isn’t really supposed to do things like look at pictures of boys in magazines or watch workout videos on the telly. He’s not going to go to hell for it or anything, just - the Great Omniscient One frowns a bit on things like lust and pride and all that. And FIFA, too, although Liam's wondering if perhaps there could be an exception, since he did save Harry.

“Doesn’t look half bad,” Niall says seriously, then starts giggling. “Bottom half’s brilliant.”

Liam is pretty sure he’s joking - the bottom half is just bits of string, really - but then again, Liam’s never entirely sure when anyone’s joking, except when they’re laughing at him. This is starting to feel a little like laughing at him.

“I should - I should go,” he says. “Thanks for the shirt, Harry, really." 

"But you haven't even converted us," Harry protests. "Or told us about how you were going to be a fireman, only you became a priest person instead."

“What happened?” Louis asks.

“Oh, I dunno. I guess I just found my true calling,” Liam says. Actually Elder Ben and some of the ladies from the Society’s knitting circle had sat down with him and told him that without strong, virile young missionaries, the Society would go under within the decade. So Liam’s full-time on door-to-door conversions now, and the Society chips together enough to pay his rent on a little bedsit in the neighborhood.

"There's brochures," Harry puts in helpfully. 

“Shame,” Louis says, eyeing Liam’s bare chest. “Would’ve loved to see you rescuing babies from house fires, or whatever you fire blokes get up to. D'you all do it shirtless, or is that just you?”

For reasons Liam can’t quite understand, this question makes Harry elbow Louis in the stomach.

“Um,” Liam says. “It’s a lot of rescuing kittens from trees, actually, ‘cos it’s such a small town. And I’m pretty sure you have to wear a sort of uniform, so. Maybe if your shirt got fire damage, or something, you could take it off?” Harry shifts closer to Liam on the sofa and puts a hand on his knee, rather high up. "Oh, sorry,” Liam says, nonsensically. Maybe the smoke inhalation’s messed with Harry’s depth perception or something. He should probably take him into urgent care, just to make sure.

“Just ignore him,” Niall calls from the other end of the sofa, where he’s still playing his video game. “Weird sex pest, that one. Oi, give us one of those brochures, then."

He tosses down the controller and extends a hand so Liam can pass him a brochure. The second one today--oh, Barbara’s going to be so pleased. At this rate they’ll probably have to print a new run, which as far as he knows hasn’t happened in about twenty years.

Louis peers over Niall's shoulder at the front cover. “SWAGOO,” he reads, and snorts.

“It stands for the Society for the Worship and Adoration of the Glorious Omniscient One,” Liam explains. He feels a bit nervous with the three of them sitting around him, watching him expectantly, but he presses on. “And we believe in the preservation of the Great Energy, which was given to mankind by His Gloriousness—”

“Humankind,” Harry corrects him.

Liam breaks off, flustered. “Sorry?“

“Just,” says Harry, “you said mankind, but it’s really humankind, innit? To be, like, inclusive.”

“Oi, leave him alone, Haz,” Niall says mildly. “He’s telling us about His Gloriousness.”

Liam glances between them, a bit uncertain. They don’t look like they’re making fun of him, but Liam can’t always tell. Once a girl from school had invited him over to her house to talk about the Blessed Teachings, only when he turned up all of her friends had been there too and they’d laughed at him. He must hesitate a little too long, because Niall pats him on the knee and says encouragingly, “Go on, then.”

It’s a bit awkward at first, but the longer Liam talks the more confident he becomes. Eventually he’s not even looking at his notecards anymore, just telling them animatedly about the transformative power of the Great Energy, and how it’s changed his life and could change theirs too, if they only open their hearts to His Gloriousness. Harry doesn’t interrupt again, though he does press his thigh against Liam’s and make a lot of disconcerting noises that Liam thinks are meant to be encouraging.

Liam feels a bit like Elder Ben must feel when he’s preaching the Blessed Teachings to the Wolverhampton seniors’ knitting circle on Tuesday evenings. Maybe he isn’t rubbish at this whole conversion thing after all. Maybe the Glorious Omniscient One’s going to use him as a vessel for the Great Energy, so he can convert these young souls and save the Society forever.

He’s so caught up in the excitement of it–picturing how delighted the knitting ladies are going to be, thinking about how his mum’s probably going to cry with happiness–that he doesn’t even realize he’s reached the end of his speech until he’s actually there.

“And that’s why we’ve all got bellybuttons,” he says, and then has to stop, sneaking a glance down at the card.

“Wow,” says Harry dreamily, petting Liam’s knee. “I always wondered.”

That’s it, Liam realizes, the last note on the card: Explain about the bellybuttons. Gosh, he’s really, truly done it. He’s managed to get through the whole of the First Proselytization. He looks back up at them all, beaming. “So,” he says, feeling a bit lightheaded with triumph, and also maybe from the way Harry’s hand seems to be drifting rather higher up than his knee. “Have you–have you got any questions for me?”

There’s a brief silence.

“I’ve got a – “ Louis starts to say, but cuts off when Niall kicks him hard in the shin. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Foot must’ve slipped,” Niall says. “Just a lot to take in, mate. Really thought-provoking stuff, especially that bit about the dinosaurs. Probably going to, er, have a look at that brochure later, when I’ve got some time to mull it over, you know?”

“Oh,” Liam says, a little disappointed. It’s not like he’d expected to make a conversion today, necessarily, but it would’ve been a nice story to come home with. “Sure, of course. I’ll just, um. I’ll let you think it over, then, and if you think of anything you want to ask you can just call the number on the back, that’s my mobile–“

“I’ve got a question too,” Harry says, the full unblinking force of his gaze fixed upon Liam’s mouth. He inches his hand a little further up Liam’s leg. “D’you do private sessions?”

“Harry,” Niall says in a stern voice.

“Sessions?” Liam asks.

“You know,” says Harry. Liam watches his tongue dart out, quick and pink, to wet his lips. “Like, for people who might be really interested in experiencing the Great Energy, only they’re not quite sure yet, and they just need a bit more converting first.”

It’s not really the kind of thing Liam does. He’s strictly the door-to-door missionary, and then if someone’s interested Elder Ben usually pays a house visit to seal the deal and perform the conversion. For some strange reason, though, the thought of Elder Ben sitting on the couch next to a rapt Harry, getting to do the Second Proselytization and the Third and maybe even the Fourth, makes Liam feel sort of prickly and strange, his skin going hot under the collar of his regulation-issue Society polo.

“Oh yes, of course I do,” he says quickly, before he can think better of it. “Er, we do. The Society, I mean. Anything for His Gloriousness, that’s what I always say.”


	5. make me (liam/louis)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis wants to try something new with Liam. (content warning: mentions of negotiated & consensual non-con roleplay)

The problem is, it isn’t just the kind of thing you can casually ask your mates about over a pint. Louis has managed to get the first part mostly sorted in his head— _Hey, ever fantasized about having some fit bloke fuck you senseless?_ —even though it took the better part of a year and a lot of time spent staring at Liam and Harry’s mouths to figure it out.

It’s the second part of that sentence that’s really giving him trouble, the bit he’s never said aloud to anyone. The part that goes something like— _and maybe he’s also got you gagged so you can’t scream, and tied you down so you couldn’t get away even if you wanted_. It just sounds a bit awkward when you put it like that, is all.

The frustrating part is that Louis doesn’t really get where these thoughts come from. He doesn’t get why, when he’s just trying to have a nice normal wank, he’ll suddenly think about being held down and forced open and he’ll get so hard so fast it actually makes him dizzy.

He’s always liked playing rough—he’ll wrestle anyone at the slightest provocation, even though he’s small and almost always loses, and one of his most vivid childhood memories involves him winding Stan up so much that he’d finally tackled him and held Louis facedown in the mud until he thought Louis had learned his lesson.

But there’s a big difference between enjoying a bit of roughhousing with your mates and the kind of no-holds-barred, no-quarter-given fucking Louis craves.

In the grand scheme of secret fantasies, Louis knows his isn’t actually all that uncommon. Lou is always leaving copies of Cosmo lying around their dressing rooms, and sometimes when he’s bored Louis will sneak a glance at articles like “Tease Him and Please Him” and “50 Foreplay Moves He Secretly Craves!” (purely to scoff at them, of course, and not at all for research purposes). But every so often there’s the occasional confessional piece about women who fantasize about being bound or forced or humiliated during sex.

The first time Louis had turned the page from “Sizzling Summer Sex Tips!” to a headline about rape fantasies, he’d panicked and immediately thrown the magazine across the room, as if just being seen holding it might be enough to somehow connect him to the article. But later, after the show, he’d gone back and filched it out of Lou’s purse while she was talking to Mark outside the dressing room, wrapping it hastily in a jumper and burying it at the bottom of his own duffel.

He’d stayed up late in his bunk that night after the other boys had gone to bed, reading it by the dim light of his phone. So, like, he knows a little bit about safewords and bondage and so on, and while the whole thing still makes him feel like a dirty perv, he at least knows he’s not the only one out there.

He’s also learned that you can want that sort of thing without it meaning that you want someone to hurt you for real. One of the women interviewed in the article talked about how intense and amazing it could be to just give up all control like that, to let someone else use your body for whatever they wanted for a while, and, well. Louis gets that. He really, really gets it.

*

Telling Liam about it one night on tour when he’s three sheets to the wind is a terrible, terrible mistake. Not least because he’s told Liam, who’s usually game for fucking Louis when it’s convenient for both of them, but who definitely didn’t sign on for this kind of thing. No, it’s mostly a terrible idea because Liam, being Liam, insists on having a Talk about it the morning after, when Louis’ horribly hungover and pretty embarrassed he’d ever brought it up.

Louis manages to avoid him for most of the morning, but Liam catches him at sound check, gets an arm around his waist and pulls him back into his dressing room.

“Lou,” Liam says patiently. “Babe. It’s clearly important to you.”

“It isn’t,” Louis yelps, kicking out at Liam’s shin and squirming wildly, but Liam just tightens his arm around Louis’s chest, just under his throat, and fuck if that doesn’t get Louis a little hot under the collar. He really hopes Liam doesn’t notice the flush that spreads over his cheeks then, because that would probably just be one more tally mark under the Louis is so fucked up column.

“It is,” Liam says, his voice firm. “So we’re going to try it, okay?”

“Stop it,” Louis grits out. “Stop being so bloody reasonable about it, okay? I know it’s mental. I know I’m mental for wanting it.”

"Just for a second,” Liam says, “why don’t we skip the bit where you panic and try to persuade me it’s all fine when it isn’t, and instead you can just you tell me what it’d be like, if we did it.”

“I’m going to ask you to stop,” Louis says. “But I won’t really want you to.”

Liam swallows, burying his face in Louis’s hair. “Okay,” he says in a muffled voice.

"I might cry.” Louis stares straight ahead at the stage, where the crew is busy setting up the lights for the concert. “Because it’s intense and I’ll probably be freaking out a little bit. Not about what’s happening, but like, the fact that I want it to happen it all, I guess.”

Liam doesn’t say anything, just strokes Louis’s side. It gives him the courage to go on, at least.

“But if I do cry I don’t want you to try and make me feel better. I want you to be, like, angry with me about it. I want you shut me up.” "Anything else?” Liam asks slowly.

"I might try to get away, maybe?” Louis ventures. “Like, I’ll try not to hurt you, but I’m going to struggle. You’re probably going to have to restrain me somehow.”

Liam shifts Louis a bit in his lap, fingers tightening around his wrists. “Yeah. I can do that.” His voice has gone a little darker. And that’s—interesting.

"I have some ground rules too,” Liam says, shifting Louis off his lap so that they’re face to face. “First, we do this at home, when we’re on break. No hotel rooms. I don’t want anyone breaking in because they think I’m, you know, actually hurting you.”

Louis nods. The thought of having that conversation with Paul—or, worse yet, management—is so horrifying it’s almost funny. Almost.

"Second, it sounds like you’re going to be pretty overwhelmed, while it’s happening. But you need to swear to me that you’ll use your word if it gets too intense. If you’re too afraid, or you realize it wasn’t what you actually wanted.”

"It is what I want,” Louis says stubbornly, and then, when Liam gives him a look, adds, “But okay, fine. Rhubarb it is.”

"And if you can’t talk, then you can tap me three times, okay? On my shoulder or my leg or whatever you can reach. I’ll make sure that I won’t, like, gag you and tie you up at the same time.”

Louis’s cock gives a little stir of interest at that particular image. He does his best to ignore it, and nods.

"C’mere,” Liam says roughly, pulling Louis into his arms. Louis goes easily, tucking his head under Liam’s chin like he’s done a thousand times before, and he didn’t realize how tense he was until his body is relaxing into Liam’s embrace.


	6. let's talk about sex, baby (alien!harry/liam)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alien harry and human liam, hangin' out

"Ha, ha!” The knock-knock joke hadn't even been that funny, but Harry’s making that weird barking noise again, the one that sounds like someone imitating a laugh when they’ve only ever read a description of laughter in a book. 

Which, Liam realizes, is probably exactly what’s happening. For some reason that makes him laugh even harder, the thought of Harry alone in his room on a spaceship somewhere practicing his laugh, and maybe it’s not that funny but he’s feeling a bit hysterical at the moment.

"Ha! Ha ha!” Harry shouts gleefully next to him.

One minute Liam’s laughing so hard his shoulders are shaking, and the next he’s choking on air, because - holy shit, that’s Harry’s hand on his dick, caressing him through his jeans.

"Harry!” he yelps, leaping back so fast he bangs his elbow on the fridge. “What the - what d'you think you’re doing?”

Harry smiles at him politely, a hint of confusion in his eyes.

"It’s all right,” Liam says quickly, to reassure himself as much as Harry. “It’s just - you grabbed, um.” He lowers his voice. “My penis.”

"Your what?”

"Um,” Liam says, blushing. He gestures vaguely towards his crotch, dropping his voice. “You know - my, uh, my private parts?”

"Ohh,” Harry says, understanding dawning. “You mean your _big cock_.”

Liam chokes. “Harry! ”

"Yes!” Harry beams at him. “That is what I am called. And you are called Lee-yum. I have not forgotten.” He doesn’t go for Liam’s crotch again, but he’s eyeing his mouth, flicking his eyes down to Liam’s lips and back up again. Liam swallows hard.

"That’s good, Harry,” he says, in what he hopes is an encouraging tone. “You’re doing really well, all things considered. It’s just that here on Earth you can’t just say stuff like that.”

Harry’s eyes drop to his mouth again. “Leeyum? I cannot say its name?”

“His name,” Liam corrects, keeping a watchful eye on Harry’s hand, which is currently creeping towards him along the counter. “And no, I meant what you said before. About my - you know.”

“But this is the custom,” Harry explains patiently, as if Liam’s the extraterrestrial tourist and not him. His hand inches closer. “First pizza, then love.“

“What? Harry, what does that even mean?”

“I bring you bread circles in a box,” Harry says, “and in exchange, you will pound me with your big cock. I have observed this ritual many times in your planet’s films.”

“What - what films?”

“The classics, of course.” Harry starts listing them off on his long alien fingers. “ _Double Blow Seven I and II, Top Bum, Free Will Humping_ \- ”

Liam gapes at him. He startles a little when Harry’s big hand slides over his, a warm heavy weight.

“You are anxious,” Harry says. He’s suddenly very close, close enough that Liam can smell his strange but not unpleasantly spicy aroma, a touch of something not quite human. His wide green eyes are full of genuine concern. “But why, Leeyum? I have prepared myself already, in the small room with the water bowl. You will not harm me.”

“Oh god,” Liam says faintly, unable to block the image from his mind. “Oh god, is that what you were doing in the toilet?”

Harry’s fingers drift up his arm. “Yes, of course. Now you will fuck me hard, please. I am eager to experience the pleasures of your people. I would like to be - how do you say - wrecked.”

“I can’t wreck you, Harry, I’m not gay!” Liam says, a bit frantically.

For some reason this seems to delight Harry.

“Ohh,” he says, sliding towards Liam along the counter. “I have seen this one too.”


	7. homophobic roommate (liam/harry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lirry fic inspired by that post "straight guy worries he's being homophobic to gay roommate, realizes he's fallen in love with him." crackfic with a twist of miscommunication angst. to be resolved, someday.

There’s no good way to say it. He’s been rehearsing it in his head all morning, going over all the ways he might try to explain, but he knows there’s nothing to be done. He’ll just have to hope that Louis’ willing to help him anyway.

“Tommo,” he says, when they’re walking back from the park. “I have to tell you something. Something big.”

Louis’ kicking the football around, but when he hears the tone of Liam’s voice he stops, looking suddenly serious. “Payno,” he says. “Mate. You know you can tell me anything.”

Liam takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“Louis,” he says. “I’m homophobic.”

“I know,” Louis says kindly, and then, “Wait. What?”

“I’m homophobic,” Liam repeats. He feels a little tearful, but that’s not on, is it. Not when he’s probably been making gay people feel so much worse, just by sending bad energy into the universe or whatever. He’s got no right to feel sorry for himself.

Louis looks confused. “D'you mean something different, maybe?” he says carefully. “Like - different word, but kinda close?”

“No,” Liam says, sniffling. “I looked it up in the dictionary. I don’t, like - I don’t want to hurt anybody, I’m not like that. I just feel kind of weird and uncomfortable around gay people, that’s all.”

“Payno,” Louis says. “You know I’m gay, right?”

“But you’re fine,” Liam says earnestly. “I mean, I’ve known you for ages, and it’s never bothered me or anything, promise. It’s just - I dunno. Lately I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Hmm,” Louis says. “When did you realize you were, er - homophobic?”

“Last night,” Liam says glumly. “I mean, I’ve suspected for a while, I guess. But last night Harry brought a bloke home and I could sort of, um, hear them? I wasn’t listening, I just. The walls are sort of thin, and they weren’t exactly being quiet?”

“Of course,” Louis says, patting him on the arm. “And you felt - ?”

“Weird,” Liam says. “Like, my stomach sort of hurt, like I wanted to throw up. And when they - when he - um. The thing with tongues? And, um. Arseholes?”

“Rimming?” Louis says.

“Yeah,” Liam says. A weird shiver runs through him. Fuck, there he goes again. “I mean. Obviously it felt, like - really good for Harry, I guess? And I’m happy for him, Lou, or I want to be, I just. I think I’ve got a prejudice.”

He feels it again, that sick, twisting feeling deep down in his belly. The way he’d felt last night, listening to Harry moan like a porn star on the other side of the wall. He wonders if you can get shock therapy or something, to cure you of your homophobic impulses.

“Ah,” Louis says, and for some reason he looks like he’s going to laugh. When Liam scowls at him he coughs into his hand and says, “Yup. Right. Well, that sounds very serious, Payno.”

“I know,” Liam says despairingly. “And it’s getting worse. I couldn’t even eat breakfast this morning, ‘cos the two of them were sitting there in the kitchen feeding strawberries to each other, and I felt so - so homophobic I just had to leave without saying anything.”

He still feels it. It makes his skin itch just thinking about it. The way the bloke had smeared the juices all over Harry’s full mouth, staining his red lips even redder. The way Harry had giggled and sucked on the bloke’s fingers, licking them clean.

Liam’s a monster, clearly. 

*

“I’m homophobic,” Liam whispers. He’s so ashamed he can’t even look Harry in the eye. Things have been going so well between the two of them, and he can’t believe he’s going to ruin it all just because he can’t control the way he feels when Harry wanders into the kitchen in the morning, shirtless and looking well-fucked. “I’m sorry, Harry, I’ve tried really hard and I just - I can’t seem to get over it. It’s nothing you’ve done, obviously, it’s my fault, and I’m working on it, I swear.”

“Hmm,” says Harry.

“I don’t hate gay people,” Liam tells him. “I think you’re great, really. And like, obviously I think you should be able to get married and stuff. Or not married, if you don’t want,” he adds quickly, because he’s just had a vision of Harry standing at an altar, beaming at Zayn as a minister pronounces them husband and husband in front of all their friends and family. It makes him feel miserable, even worse than all the times he’s woken up to the sound of Harry’s headboard banging rhythmically against the wall, Harry making little _uhn-uhn_ noises and Zayn saying _fuck yeah, babes, take it_ in a low, raspy voice.

“Well,” Harry says slowly. “This all sounds pretty serious, Liam.

He doesn’t sound nearly as surprised as Liam expected, which either means that Louis’ already warned him or that Liam’s been rubbish at keeping his feelings to himself. Liam really hopes it’s the former. It’s good, gay people looking out for each other. He’s been reading about how important it is to have, like, a proper community.

He tells Harry this now, and also about all the websites he’s been looking at trying to sort himself out. “I’ve ordered a book too,” he says, “and there’s a free counseling center down at the uni, and I thought – maybe they could help, you know? If I just went in and told them what was happening.”

“Maybe,” Harry says doubtfully. Liam falls silent, feeling chagrined. He’d been so eager to tell Harry about how he’s trying to fix his homophobia that he hasn’t even let Harry say his piece first. God, what if it’s not enough, the websites and the books and the counseling? What if Harry’s so uncomfortable living with someone like Liam that he can’t be the truest version of himself anymore? Liam couldn’t bear that. It’s bad enough, him being the way he is. He doesn’t want Harry to suffer because of it.

“Or I could just move out,” he says in a small voice. “That would probably be best, right?”

To his surprise, Harry puts a hand on his knee and squeezes gently, saying, “Hey, no, c’mon. Look at me.”

Liam sniffles, but he lifts his head to meet Harry’s gaze. He must look a mess, his eyes wet with tears and red-rimmed from too many late nights spent trawling the internet for help. But Harry doesn’t seem disgusted, or put off, or whatever. He’s smiling at him, and it makes Liam feel like maybe, just maybe, they’re going to find a way to be mates, even now that Harry know his deepest, darkest secret.

“I don’t want you to move out,” says Harry. “And I think I can help you with your, er, issues. I’m not, like, a fancy counselor or anything, but I’ve got an idea.”

“Really?” Liam asks hopefully. “What is it?”

Harry inches a little closer to him on the bed. “Ever heard of exposure therapy?”

Liam shakes his head no. He can feel the warm line of Harry’s thigh pressed up against his, Harry’s big hand splayed over his knee, and it’s making his heart beat a little faster in his chest.

“Well,” says Harry. “It’s where you expose somebody to the thing they’re afraid of a little bit at a time, and it helps cure them of their phobia.”

“But I’m already best mates with Louis,” Liam points out. “I spend loads of time with gay people. I don’t think that’s going to help.”

“I’m not talking about mates,” says Harry. “I’m talking about something else.”

His gaze drops to Liam’s mouth. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, really—Harry conducts most of his conversations without breaking eye-to-mouth contact—so Liam’s not sure why it makes his throat go suddenly dry.

“What d’you mean?” he asks, swallowing.

“Sometimes,” Harry says slowly, “people are scared of stuff ‘cos they just haven’t tried it, you know? Like, if you had a phobia about swimming or something, I’d take you swimming, maybe. Get you in the water with a life-vest on and keep you close, so you knew nothing bad was going to happen.”

Liam nods, though he’s not sure he follows exactly—Harry’s rubbish at swimming, always splashing around and gasping like a drowning cat while Liam’s trying to get in his exercise. It’s lovely to picture, though: Harry looking after him, resting his hand in the small of Liam’s back as he waded into the water. Holding him close, if Liam got scared and didn’t want to swim anymore.

Plus Harry would wear those tiny yellow swim trunks, and that – that might be nice, Liam thinks.

Harry leans in closer. “I can cure you, Liam,” he says, his voice gone all low and gravelly. “If that’s what you really want.”

Liam feels as if he’s been hypnotized or something, like his limbs won’t cooperate. It doesn’t feel like homophobia, though. It feels like something else. 

“I do,” he says, his heart in his throat. “I want it.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and kisses him.

His mouth is soft and lush, tasting faintly of peppermint chapstick. He’s a good kisser, deliberate but generous, too, responsive. Liam’s mouth parts instinctively for him, in a breath of surprise, and Harry coaxes it open further, slips his tongue inside.

He makes a small, bereft noise when Harry pulls back, looking at him. “That okay?” he asks in a soft voice.

Liam blinks at him. “Fine,” he says, dazed. “Good.”

“You’re not freaking out?” Harry asks. “No homophobic feelings?”

Liam’s not sure what kinds of feelings he’s having right now. His brain’s gone kind of fuzzy around the edges.

“No, ‘m good.” He wonders if Harry thought it was a nice kiss too. He wonders if Harry’s kissed so many boys – boys who are properly gay, who know how to kiss other boys – that it doesn’t even register.

The bad feeling wells up in him again, ferocious in its intensity. “Homophobic,” he gasps nonsensically. “It’s back, Harry, I need – ”

“Shh, okay,” says Harry, and kisses him again. It’s less tentative this time, more urgent, and Liam presses eagerly up into it, gets his hand in the front of Harry’s shirt and tries to tug him closer.

“Hang on,” Harry says against his mouth, sounding amused, and Liam feels panicky for a moment until he realizes Harry’s maneuvering them back onto the bed, lowering Liam down onto the mattress. For a second all Liam can see is the ceiling fan, blades rotating slowly above him. Then Harry’s there, body settling on top of Liam’s as he licks and bites and sucks his way down Liam’s throat.

When Harry works a knee between his thighs Liam makes an embarrassing noise, a sort of choked moan, and twists his face away. He’s hard, embarrassingly so, and he can’t seem to keep still, writhing beneath Harry like no one’s ever touched him before.

“Shh, shh,” Harry murmurs, breath hot against his skin. “Is it helping?”

“What?” Liam gasps.

“The exposure therapy.” Harry swirls his tongue over the ridge of Liam’s collarbone. “Is it working?”

That’s right, Liam remembers with a jolt. That’s what they’re doing, just using science to cure Liam of his unacceptable feelings. He’s not a bloke Harry’s picked up on a night out. Not a boy Harry’s spotted over the rim of his glass, across a crowded dancefloor, and imagined getting on his knees for later. He’s just Harry’s roommate. His dull, boring, heterosexual roommate, who’s also turned out to be a terrible bigot. 

It’s not fair to Harry, Liam thinks. It’s not right, even if Harry’s been so nice about wanting to help him.

He’s struggling to sit up before he’s even finished the thought, squirming out from underneath him.

“What’s the matter?” Harry says, surprise evident in his voice. “Where are you going?”

“Thanks,” Liam says, ducking his head so Harry can’t see his face. He feels even more miserable than when they’d begun, bleak and sort of hopeless. “I think - it worked, I think. Reckon I’m cured now.”

“But - “

“Going to go to Louis’ for a bit,” Liam says shakily. “So - so you can have Zayn over tonight, if you want. I dunno when I’ll be back.”

“Wait,” Harry says, scrambling to the edge of the bed. “Liam, wait.”

“Sorry,” Liam says, and bolts from the room.


	8. harry explains 'sign of the times' to niall (harry/niall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pure silliness. this was written before 'sign of the times' actually came out, haha.

“And the doctor comes in, see, and he says we’ve got good news and bad news, and which would you like first,” Harry explains. “And the mum’s very brave, so of course she says, Give me the bad news first, please, Doctor.”

“Uh huh.” Niall sounds a little distracted.

“And then the doctor gets very serious and he says, Ma'am, with all due respect, I’d recommend the good news first.”

“But he just asked,” Niall points out. “Why would he ask if he was just going to tell her the good news first anyway?”

“It’s for dramatic effect,” Harry explains patiently. Niall’s brilliant, really, but sometimes when they’re writing songs together Harry has to break down all the steps to make sure he’s still following. “So when you’re listening you’re like, oh my god, what’s he going to say, it must be really bad. And it is. It’s really awful.” Tears are already welling up in his eyes, just thinking about it.

“Oh no,” says Niall, and then, in a slightly muffled voice, “Go on, Deo, I’ll be down in a minute. No, it’s Harry. Yeah, all right, make it ten.”

“Niall!”

“Right here,” Niall says quickly. “So something’s the matter with the baby, then? Is that the bad news?”

“No, the baby’s fine, that’s the good news,” Harry reassures him. “So the doctor tells her, and she’s like, oh, can I see it, let me hold my baby. And the doctor says - ” He pauses for dramatic effect.

“Think I lost you, mate,” Niall says after a minute. “Connection’s a bit fuzzy.”

Harry doesn’t bother to explain that it was for dramatic effect too; Niall’s got no sense of timing, honestly. “Anyway, he says, the baby’s fine, but there’s been a complication, and I’m afraid you’re not going to make it.”

“What?” Niall says. “What kind of crap doctor is this guy, anyway? Shouldn’t he be busy trying to save her instead of talking her ear off about good news and bad news?”

“He’s a great doctor,” says Harry, a bit defensively. “He’s like, the best baby doctor in all of England, basically.”

“Must not be that good, if he can’t deliver a bleeding baby.”

“It’s a very rare complication,” Harry says. “There’s going to be a line in the song about how it only affects, like, one in a million women.” He makes a note in his notebook to add that bit in.

“Okay,” Niall says, drawing out the ‘o’ in a way that sounds like he’s not completely convinced. “Feels a bit heavy for radio, though, don’t you think? Did you ask Jeff?”

He kindly doesn’t mention the whole demo album debacle, where Harry’d had to ditch all twelve tracks he’d written for Stuff from my Flat and move to Jamaica to write a completely new album.

Harry sighs. “Jeff says I have to ask Other Jeff. Only I don’t think Other Jeff shares, like, my creative vision, you know?“

“He does come pretty highly recommended,” Niall says. “Maybe you should show him the song, see what he thinks. It’s fourteen minutes long, you said?”

“Yeah,” Harry says glumly. “It takes ages to set up, like, the backstory and stuff, and I’ve only just got to the part where the mum gets to hold the baby in her arms for five minutes before she dies, and she’s got to tell him everything he needs to know to go out into the world and conquer.”

“Huh,” is all Niall says.

“So obviously she tells him the most important stuff, like ‘love is love’ and ‘he for she’ and how we don’t talk enough and we need to open up, and also about the world water crisis and stuff. And Sea World, I think.”

“Hmm,” Niall says. “D'you reckon the baby’s going to remember all that? I mean, it’s just had a traumatic experience, being born and all, and now its mum dying.”

Harry frowns, tapping his pen against the edge of his journal. “Maybe somebody records it for him, and then every verse could be like, the kid learning something new from his mother’s words? On his birthday? And there could be, like, eighteen verses?“

“Sounds wicked,” Niall says. “Honor her sacrifice and all that. Hey, Haz, listen, I’ve got to run. Got a golf date and I’m running late.” 

(tbc?)


	9. 'sign of the times': behind the scenes (harry/jeff, ish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written to commemorate the day we first saw photos of harry flyin' around in the air out of a helicopter.

It’s not until he’s actually being strapped into the harness that Harry starts to panic. There are like, a million helicopters flying around, including the one he’s currently being hitched up to, and also it’s really cold, and Lou’s spent the whole morning fretting over his hair in a way that makes Harry worry that it looks stupid and nobody’s telling him.

To make matters worse, he’s been expressly forbidden from wearing sunglasses on his head when he’s up in the air. His proposed compromise—a nice newsboy cap—had resulted in Jeff raiding his closet and burning anything that even vaguely resembled a hat.

“It’s gonna be incredible, H,” Jeff’s saying now. His left eye’s twitching again; it’s been doing that a lot lately, Harry’s noticed. He makes a mental note to have his assistant send round some more bananas.

“Legendary.” Jeff shakes his head. “Fuckin’ era-defining. Dad’s gonna be so impressed. He’s not gonna believe what he’s fuckin’ seeing.”

Harry eyes the Daily Mail helicopter hovering off in the distance, feeling distinctly queasy. He’s so distracted he hasn’t even been able to flirt properly with the burly bloke who’s in charge of attaching him to the bungee cord. They’ve been out here for forty minutes and he hasn’t even managed to ask whether the guy comes here often, or find out if he’s got a sick grandmother Harry could send a thoughtful card to.

“Hey, Jeff,” he says, clearing his throat. “Can I, uh, talk to you about something?”

Jeff claps him on the shoulder. “Lay it on me, H-man,” he says. 

“I was just thinking, um. Flying’s sick, right?”

“Fuck yeah it is,” says Jeff, with feeling.

“But you know what could also be sick,” Harry says, “is riding a scooter across campus? Like, in a fancy peacoat?”

Jeff gives him a confused look.

“Or riding around London on a bus,” says Harry. “You know, so people know I’m English?”

“Bro,” Jeff says slowly. “What’re you saying?”

“Or dancing? I’ve heard that dance is really hot right now, and actually I know this great choreographer, Leeroy—”

“You gotta go up there, man,” Jeff says. “We already cut a hole in the coat.”

“I can pay for it,” Harry says quickly. “The coat, I mean. Also the helicopters, and the, um, the stunt double guy, in the mask thingy.”

Jeff grabs him by the shoulders in a strong, manful sort of way. “Harry,” he says. “Hershel. Hazmat. Stay with me, man. WWMJD, yeah? What would Mick Jagger do?”

Harry tries to remember his flashcards. He’s learned a lot of things in the exhaustive ten-month course Jeff’s arranged for him on British rock idols—for example, that Queen isn’t just a guy called Queen, but is actually a bunch of guys with other names he can’t remember at the moment—but he still forgets a lot. The only thing he can think of is causing trouble up in hotel rooms, but he’s almost positive that’s not what Jeff’s got in mind.

“I’ll tell you what Mick fuckin’ Jagger would do,” Jeff says, shaking him again. “He’d be in the fuckin’ air already, H-man. He’d be getting his fuckin’ dick sucked over the Atlantic fuckin’ Ocean right now.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “It’s just, I’m not allowed to be naked in public, you had that put in my contract specially.” 

“It’s a fuckin’ metaphor, my dude.” Jeff’s eye is twitching again.

“Is it, technically?” Harry frowns. “I mean, Zayn usually handled the metaphors, I was more the trumpets guy.”

“You know what, forget the metaphor.” Jeff claps him on the back, then gestures to somebody over his shoulder. “Forget Mick Jagger. There’s no comparison, am I right? You’re Harry Styles, bro, and you’re gonna fuckin’ fly.”

“Right,” Harry says, slightly panicked, “yeah, but about that, I’ve got all these other ideas, and some of them are pretty good—”

“Dad’s gonna shit his pants,” Jeff says gleefully, as the blades of the helicopter whir to life over their heads.

“Like this one time in One Direction,” Harry shouts over the noise, “we all went on these dates, except it was with the same girl? And you could only see her hand? And this other time we were on a pier, and it was really cold—”

“Take him away, boys!”

“And we only had one jumper,” Harry yells as he’s lifted slowly off the ground. “Can you believe it? Only one jumper between the five of us! Pretty legendary, innit?”

“It’s your year, Hazpatrol,” Jeff shouts, waving at him. “It’s your fuckin’ era, dudeski! Long live Holo!”

“I could train a space robot!” Harry screams. The ground’s receding steadily beneath him, the crowd below growing smaller and smaller. His hair’s totally ruined already. “I could teach it how to love!”

“Eighty fuckin’ million!” Jeff whoops from the ground. “And fuck you, Dad! I'm my own fuckin' man!”


	10. 50 shades of grey au (harry/fionn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry/fionn, 50 shades of grey AU crossposted from tumblr. inspired by these tags:
> 
> #now I want a 50 shades of grey AU where Harry’s the filthy rich hot businessman and he meets some nice recent college gradand pursues them #except PLOT TWIST #harry’s the sub #he takes them to his Room of Pain or whatever and is like ‘what do you think? be honest’ #they’re like ‘uh… I mean I guess I could be into it’ and he’s like ‘GREAT ok here’s the flogger and here’s my vibrating butt plug’ #‘also can you sign this contract i wrote that expressly forbids me from doing all of these things? thanks’ #‘wanna take a ride in my private helicopter and then deny me multiple orgasms?’

“Dude,” Jack says. “Stop overthinking it and just go for it. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“It might be weird,” Fionn says. “What if it’s weird?”

“Well, sounds like that’s pretty much a given at this point,” Tom says, flipping through the contract. “But he’s hot, right? And you like him?”

“I don’t like him,” Fionn grouses. “I barely even know him. I just agreed to go for dinner with him because he kept following me around at Home Depot asking if we sold rope, and my manager was starting to give me funny looks.”

“Are you really supposed to use, like, rope rope for that kind of thing?” Jack asks, frowning. “Seems like it’d be sort of uncomfortable.”

“He’s into that, apparently,” Fionn says. After one elaborate candlelit dinner (which Harry had hardly touched, too busy fellating his spoon and licking around the rim of his wine glass without breaking eye contact) and a lengthy tour of the Red Room of Pain, Fionn knows significantly more about Harry’s chafing preferences than he’d ever cared to.

“Ooh, look, it says he’ll pay for dry cleaning,” Tom says, eyes lighting up. “I bet we could slip some extra stuff into the bag, don’t you think? I’ve got this top that I’ve been meaning to take in forever.”

“What about carpet cleaning?” Jack says, resting his chin on Tom’s shoulder as he reads. “There’s that wine stain on the rug from Barry’s birthday last year. Think you could lure him to our place and have sex on the floor? It’s just over there by the TV.”

Fionn snatches the contract back. “I feel like you guys aren’t taking this seriously,” he says. “Come on, I need help here. What am I supposed to tell him?”

Just then, the front door slams open. Barry wheels his bike in.

“Yo, Fionn,” he says, leaning it against the wall and coming into the living room. “Long time no see, man!”

By way of greeting, he initiates a complicated secret handshake whose steps Fionn has never, in the three years they’ve been friends, actually bothered to learn. He’d made a halfhearted attempt at first, before realizing that Barry’s level of enthusiasm doesn’t seem at all dependent on Fionn’s participation.

“And the ol’ razzledazzle,” Barry crows after about fifteen seconds of this. He tickles Fionn’s palms, spins on the spot, and pretends to shoot him with finger guns, before laughing uproariously. “What’s good, bro?”

“Fionn’s found himself a sugar daddy,” Jack tells him. “He’s gonna pay for his dry cleaning and everything.”

“Dude!” Barry looks impressed. “That’s sick. Hey, do you mind if I put a couple things in the bag? My friend Chad’s getting married next month, and - ”

“There’s no dry cleaning bag,” Fionn snaps. “And he’s not a sugar daddy, okay. He’s just some sleazy old perv who I’m probably not even going to see again.”

He feels a brief stab of guilt at the thought of the sweet, earnest way Harry had looked at him last night, when Fionn had kissed him on the front porch and said gruffly, _I’ll think about it, okay?_

 _Okay,_ Harry had said, looking a little nervous. _I know it’s - um, kind of a lot. So if you’re not into it you can just - you can tell me, and I won’t bother you again, I promise._

“I thought you said he was like, twenty-six,” Tom says. “And who cares if he’s a perv? He’s hot.”

“Lemme see, man,” Barry says. “Got a pic?”

“Here,” Jack says, holding up his phone. Fionn catches a glimpse of the Styles Enterprise Holdings logo on the screen.

“Hey!” he says, grabbing for it, but Barry’s faster, snatching it out of Jack’s hand. He looks at the screen and whistles, long and low.

“Right?” Tom says.

“No homo, bro, but you should tap that,” Barry says, passing the phone back to Jack. He drops onto the couch. “What’s he into, though? Is it really fucked up?”

“Uh - I dunno,” Fionn says. “Like, whips, I guess. And, um, being tied up and spanked and stuff.”

“And not being allowed to come except when you tell him to,” Tom says.

“And being blindfolded,” Jack adds. “Butt plugs. Nipple clamps. Romantic bubble baths after sex.”

“And he mentions that he doesn’t have a gag reflex about five times in that contract,” Tom says. “So I kinda get the feeling that’s gonna be important.”

Barry looks around at them, an expectant expression on his face. There’s a pause.

“Uh,” Fionn says finally. “That’s it, pretty much.”

“I thought you said he was into weird shit,” Barry says.

“That is weird,” Fionn says. “Isn’t it? I mean, come on, bubble baths?”

“Man,” Barry says. “I went home with this girl from Tinder last night, and she wanted to choke me out with a necktie and step on my balls in heels.”

“What?” Tom and Fionn exclaim.

“You didn’t let her,” Jack says, looking worried. “Did you?”

“Nah, that’s third date shit,” Barry says confidently. “Gotta keep something in the bag, you know what I mean? I did wear the wolf costume, though. Kinda felt like the least I could do.”

“That’s - is that _normal_?” Fionn asks. 

“That’s online dating, man,” Barry says, with an unconcerned shrug.

There’s a brief, horrified silence. “Um, I think you should say yes,” Tom says to Fionn. “To the rich, hot, moderately kinky business guy. I think you should definitely, absolutely say yes.”

“Yeah,” Fionn says faintly. “Like, right now. Hand me a pen, somebody. I’ve got a contract to sign.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come visit me on [dreamwidth](http://saysthemagpie.dreamwidth.org)!


	11. ben winston lurves henry starkles (ben/harry, kinda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please enjoy this excerpt from an Actual Conversation that 100% definitely happened backstage between ben and felix, the young hot star of ben’s new self-insert fanfiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the email spam today y'all, last one for a bit!

“Sorry to drop in like this,” Felix said as he settled onto the sofa opposite Ben’s desk, making himself comfortable despite the obviously restricted fit of his black skinny jeans. “But you did say that I could come by at any hour of the day or night if I wanted to like, get into character. And I just had a few questions before the first runthrough tomorrow.”

“Of course, of course,” Ben said sympathetically. “Having trouble with the lines, are you? Meredith and I would love to take you out to lunch to get some extra practice in—I know just the place, perfect little spot. They do a lovely iceberg salad. Do you like lettuce, Felix?”

Felix gave him an odd look. “Er,” he said. “With other things on it, I guess? Not just by itself.”

“Hrmmm,” Ben said, jotting something down on his notepad. “Well, we can work on that, I suppose. So it’s lines then, is it? Or blocking?”

“Oh, no, the lines are whatever,” Felix said. “It’s all just sitcom crap, isn’t it? And looking up through my lashes at the camera or whatever.” He shrugged. “I guess I’m more questioning, like, the whole premise?”

Ben looked up from the email he’d just been composing to costumes— _Contacts should be SEAGLASS green, NOT olive!!!_ —and smiled faintly. “I’m sorry?”

“I just don’t get it,” Felix said. “Henry Starkles is supposed to be the hottest celeb in the world, right? He’s dated half a dozen Victoria’s Secret Angels, the entire Brazilian men’s volleyball team, and this mega popstar Tara Sniftly. And yet we’re supposed to believe that he spends his free time having naked yoga retreats in some old dude’s backyard?”

“Old!” Ben laughed and laughed. “Thirty-something! Is that what passes for old these days?” He laughed with such force he had to clutch at his side a bit, stricken with a sudden stitch.

Felix eyed him warily. “Uh,” he said. “Yeah, so I know this married dude used to be, uh— ” He consults the script. “—totally built in college, but come on. I just don’t think anyone’s going to buy the whole May/December thing.”

“Har - Henry Starles needs a firm hand.” Ben’s smile began to feel slightly brittle. “A mature lover. Someone who has years, decades really, of sexual experience. The vagaries of fame—the trappings of youth—that’s not what he really needs.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Felix said, scribbling down a note on his script. “So it’s definitely just a pervy sex thing, right? That’s Henry’s motivation for banging this dude?”

“Ah,” Ben said stiffly. “Well, I can see you clearly haven’t made it to the third episode yet.”

“No, I did,” said Felix, flipping through his script. “You mean the scene where Starkles crawls into bed with the old geezer and his wife, right? Because he’s too tired from eight months of nonstop touring to make it upstairs to the attic?”

“That’s the one,” Ben said, pleased. “As I’m sure you noticed, it’s a scene of remarkable emotional depth, really a significant moment in the development of all three characters. Overwhelmed by weariness, the nubile young popstar collapses into the arms of his older lovers, giving himself over wholly to their ministrations—” 

“Ha,” Felix said, reading. “Not that tired, is he? Here’s that bit where they—hang on— _make tender yet sizzling love for hours on end, Mr. Winterson’s proud manhood never flagging,_ and then there’s like, fifteen pages describing Henry’s mouth. Okay, so Winterson’s popping Viagra like candy to keep up with this teenager—”

“Hardly a teenager,” Ben snapped. “The script clearly states that he was nineteen years and ten months of age, virtually on the cusp of manhood.”


End file.
